


Sometimes

by belovedmuerto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Snogging, have i mentioned the fluff?, lots and lots of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-28
Updated: 2011-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-23 04:14:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pure, undiluted fluff. And some snogging on the couch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes

**Author's Note:**

> I needed some fluff because it seems like everything I've been reading and/or writing of late has been angsty in the extreme. This is what happened. This has no bearing on _any_ of the other stories I've posted. Also, as close to smut as I've ever written, so please be nice. Also also, this is both unbeta'd and like all my other stuff unBrit-picked. (Have I mentioned the cookies on offer if anyone wants to be my Brit-picker?)

All things considered: the apparent coldness of the man, the deductions that serve to keep the lesser mortals at bay (if nothing else, anyway), the way he holds himself, the way he looks at most people, the way he _actually_ refers to people as lesser mortals sometimes when he’s especially frustrated, John feels sometimes like he should’ve been surprised to discover that his flatmate _really_ loves a good cuddle.

But even cold, aloof, self-proclaimed sociopaths need human contact sometimes, so when Sherlock starts rearranging John on the couch and then crawls over him and snuggles in with a child-like sigh of contentment, John merely takes a moment to look at Sherlock closely. He realizes that Sherlock is waiting; waiting with his head tucked under John’s chin, tensed for the oncoming rebuff. Instead of doing what Sherlock expects (and he finds he really likes the times when he can do the opposite of what Sherlock expects), he chuckles and settles his arms around the man, turning his attention back to the rubbish on the telly.

“If you make me mad this week, I’m putting this in my blog,” he teases.

Sherlock looks at him sharply, affronted, until he realizes that John is joking. He snorts his derision of that statement and lays his head over John’s heart and promptly falls into a light doze. Neither of them moves for hours.

**

Sometimes John wakes up with Sherlock next to him. Sometimes he wakes up with Sherlock practically on top of him, because as it turns out, Sherlock is an even bigger cuddle-bug when he’s asleep; he tends to latch on, akin to a leech, except bigger and requiring far more sustenance. John always pokes and prods at him--discovering just how ticklish Sherlock is in the process--until Sherlock wakes or at least moves enough that John can draw a full breath again.

Sometimes, Sherlock wakes up with John next to him, one arm across his waist, soft smile at the corners of his lips as he sleeps. He never gets up before John when this happens, no matter how pressing the experiment or the case or the boredom (and watching John sleep is _never_ boring).

**

Every now and again, Lestrade sees the two of them exchange a look so fraught with meaning, with promise, that it makes his breath catch in his throat.

He doesn’t think they’re sleeping together like most of the rest of his squad does, but sometimes he wishes they’d get it over with. It’s _weird_ when Sherlock looks like he wants to snog John over a corpse. Not surprising, but weird nonetheless.

He wonders if it would be untoward to start a pool. He’d probably make a lot of money taking odds on when it’ll happen. He supposes he’ll buy them dinner with part of it; that’ll alleviate the guilt.

**

Sherlock, John discovers one afternoon, actually _purrs_ when John plays with his hair. He sounds just like the Siamese that John’s mother used to have. It really shouldn’t be any of the things it is, namely incredibly erotic and incredibly endearing.

Sherlock has great hair. No, seriously, it’s fucking great. The sort of hair that pretty much every other person on the planet wishes they had: soft, full, fine strands but oh so many of them. It practically glows under the right light; not black but not brown or even red, it’s all three. John has wanted to run his hands through it for ages, since the first time he saw Sherlock, in the bad lighting of that lab at Barts, leaning over whatever experiment he’d been conducting.

The worst part is that Sherlock knows it’s great; just like everything else. Sherlock is nothing if not vain--have you seen his clothes? Jesus--so John has resisted, feeling sure that Sherlock would hate to have his hair played with, hate to have his no doubt carefully arranged curls mussed.

It isn’t until a lazy Sunday afternoon that he learns this new thing about Sherlock. They are doing not much of anything; John is reading a book and Sherlock is sprawled out the length of the couch with his feet on the far arm of it and his head in John’s lap.

John absently drops his hand into Sherlock’s hair and cards his fingers through it; Sherlock purrs. John looks down at him, does it again. Sherlock purrs again, his eyes falling shut. He stretches in pleasure and snuggles closer.

John stares.

Sherlock opens his eyes and glares at John.

John obeys. He turns his attention back to his book, but his fingers stay in Sherlock’s hair until Sherlock gets a text and bounds out of the lounge to get dressed and drag him to a crime scene.

**

The kissing. That’s new.

Not bad, mind you, but new.

Sort of weird, yes. He’d never really expected it to happen. But it’s not bad. Just... new.

“Sherlock,” he breathes, pulling back just a hair. He’s breathing Sherlock’s breath. Their foreheads are pressed together.

Sherlock chuckles, shifts closer, as if they’re not already pressed together from forehead to hip. His hands haven’t stopped moving since he started kissing John and it’s _distracting_ , up and down his arms, down his back, across his chest, around his neck and now they do stop, cupping John’s face, thumbs moving over his cheekbones.

“Sherlock,” John tries again. “What are you doing?”

Sherlock chuckles again, nips at John’s lower lip, inhales his sigh. “I believe the colloquial term is snogging, John. I am snogging you.”

“Oh,” John breathes. “That’s what I thought. Just checking.”

“May I continue?”

“Oh yes, do please.”

It is John’s turn to chuckle, and Sherlock kisses him again while he’s still smiling. He wants to taste John’s chuckles. He wants to kiss John forever. He wants to crawl inside John and live there.

John responds, but remains passive. He lets Sherlock set the pace, and it’s maddening; Sherlock doesn’t want John to _be_ kissed, Sherlock wants John to be kissing _him_. Kissing--indeed, all of this, whatever this turns out to be--has never been Sherlock’s area, and he knows that John knows far more about what he’s doing than he does. It’s utterly maddening, how badly he wants John to take charge, to grab him and hold him and kiss the breath out of him, kiss the thought out of him.

Sherlock growls in frustration and breaks the kiss, leaning his forehead against John’s, his breath harsh.

John chuckles again, soothes his hands over Sherlock, up his arms, down his back, up his arms and down his back.

“What?” John asks, even though Sherlock knows he already knows the answer.

“I require your active participation, John.” Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s waist and hauls him even closer. John is basically sitting in his lap now, and doesn’t that cause a wonderful ripple effect throughout his whole body? From the tremor that courses through John, Sherlock expects that the ripple effect is the same for him. That’s consolation, at least; he’s not the only one affected by this.

“Oh, do you? Good of you to realize,” John replies. He gentles the barb by rubbing his thumb over one sharp cheekbone. There are entire conversations in that one gesture.

 Sherlock’s head jerks up, his eyes narrow. “You’re teasing me.”

“Well deduced, that.” John’s grin is positively evil. It sends shivers down Sherlock’s spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “You didn’t ask me if I wanted to be snogged.”

“You didn’t stop me.” Sherlock wriggles a bit. John’s eyes flutter.

“Seemed impolite to interrupt.” John’s smile turns tender, and he brushes Sherlock’s hair back. Sherlock, of course, purrs; John can feel the vibration of it in his chest where they’re pressed together, nothing but two shirts and a jumper between them.

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock,” John leans in until there is barely a breath between their lips. His hands drift over Sherlock’s body, feather-light, until one is pressed to the nape of Sherlock’s neck, the other at his waist, kneading.

“Would you please kiss me now?”

“Of course,” John smiles, “good of you to ask.”

 And he does. And it’s wonderful.


End file.
